Aftermath
by rednecksaints
Summary: On her search to reconnect with her sister, Beth stumbles upon an abandoned hospital. She finds a man inside the drawer of a morgue; undead. Not a Walker, just... alive. Soon, they discover they are not alone. Grady is not abandoned. And they are about to become its newest patients.
1. Prologue

Daryl opens his eyes and is greeted by piercing darkness. He blinks, trying to clear the black from his vision, but it resides. He's never seen dark this thick. This opaque. It grips at him like the thick tentacles of an octopus, waiting to strangle and suction the life right out of his lungs.

He tries to move, but his hands are bound. They rest on either side of his torso, pinned down by thick leather straps. Someone did this. He did not happen here by accident - wherever _here_ is. Not the dead, but the living. He was taken. He's being held.

He twists and writhes, but the restraints are too much for him to make headway. The tight quarters close in on him, and his heart beats a little bit faster. He's never felt claustrophobic before - the fear is new - but it's real and dangerous, and it might just drive him mad before he ever happens on a chance of escaping.

Suddenly, there's movement on the other side of his wall of darkness. Something beyond that shroud that lends possibility to his hope of light and freedom. There's a _crack_. A small creaking that's followed by a metal whirring. He prepares to be blinded by light, whatever the source, but several seconds pass in continued darkness.

Then, it happens. The door opens, and his location is finally revealed.

He's in a morgue.


	2. Pulse

Beth Greene was no stranger to survival.

She'd been on her own for weeks since the farm was overrun. She'd anticipated it, for in her eyes it was inevitable, given everything her family had been through already. Losing her brother, Shawn, was one thing. But her parents—that was an entirely different sort of loss. For a long while it was just her and Maggie after that, and having her sister was the one last shred of hope Beth had to cling to. But even that was taken away. In the chaos of the horde of Walkers that stampeded over their father's land, she and Maggie were separated, and Beth had been alone ever since.

At first, it felt like sleepwalking. She carried out the motions of staying alive, but the effort was minimal at best. She didn't eat or drink; she just walked, avoiding the dead with little thought or care. But on the verge of passing out from dehydration and lack of nutrition, she stumbled upon an empty grocery store. She scanned the shelves and found two bottles of water, along with a box of Cheerios. She took it as a sign, and it was then that she decided to start living again.

After that she began gathering supplies. Weapons to use against the Walkers—that was what her family had come to call the dead when they turned—a fresh change of clothes, more food and water, and a backpack to carry it all. She slept in cars, making sure the doors were locked from the inside even though she knew the dead weren't self aware enough to pry open the handles. Or, at least she hoped. So far the arrangement had worked out for her, but it was becoming strenuous. She needed to find better shelter. She needed to find a house to hole up in for a couple a days to regain her strength. Get a solid night's rest. Hope for a shower.

She was lonely, but she hadn't seen another living soul outside of her family since the outbreak began. And how could she trust anyone? She was young. Blonde. Her frame was thin, and given a first impression, she didn't appear tough. She was the type of girl that might get taken advantage of. She wasn't strong. She didn't _feel_ strong. But she was smart. That she knew. And she was keen enough to keep out of anyone's reach. She would be like a cat, quick and graceful. Like the blink of an eye. Like the shift of a shadow. She would use whatever she could use, and never stay too long in one place. That was her plan, and she stuck to it.

It worked for awhile. Until she found the hospital.

That was when everything changed.

""⧫""

The girl was small.

She looked young in the face, but her eyes were aged. Either she was blessed with good features, or she'd just been through the mill. Whatever the source, Daryl saw that the soul behind those eyes was broken and on its last leg.

She hovered over him, careful not to get too close, but she could clearly see that he was alive—he wasn't one of them—and most of all, he did not belong in that drawer. Her eyes were wide as they took him in. Blue irises bright with hue, despite their tiredness and witnessed tragedy. She scanned him, as if checking for any sign that he was faking. Then, even when that didn't prove to be enough to satisfy her, she took his wrist in her fragile fingers and checked his pulse.

It was there. He could feel it thudding against his chest as his heart refused to slow from the panic he'd felt locked inside that drawer. Although he had fresh air now, he was still restrained, and he assumed it was the only reason she was brave enough to touch him.

"Shit, you're alive!" the girl screeched, pulling back from him and clasping a hand over her mouth.

He wanted to say, ' _Well of course you stupid bitch!',_ but he didn't. Daryl took in a deep breath and spoke in a slightly calmer tone than he had in mind. "Did you think I was dead?"

She recoiled, as if hearing him speak was further proof of his animation. "Whoever put you here sure thought so," she stated bluntly.

Her accent was thick. She was southern, most likely from this area, so she hadn't ventured far from wherever she started from. He zeroed in on that sweet Georgia twang as he tried to lift his head from the cold slab of metal, but he was so tightly strapped down that it felt like he was attempting to lift 500 pounds. She continued to stare at him. Unsure how to respond.

"Listen," he started, "could you maybe, umm, get me out of this thing?"

"W-what?" she stammed. "You could be a rapist or something."

"I ain't no rapist," he claimed, his own rough southern drawl coming back to him. His throat was dry. His tongue felt like cotton. He needed water, and he would've bet money if he had it that she was carrying some in that tiny backpack she was wearing.

She hesitated. Reached out a shaky hand towards the straps that held him in place and began to undo them. Once the top half of his body was free, she stepped back and allowed him to unlatch the lower restrains himself. He saw her fumble haphazardly for the gun at her side, just barely brushing it with the tips of her fingers, trying to decide whether or not she needed to draw it. Aim it at him.

"Thank you," Daryl said after he was on his feet. It was an incredible relief just to stand upright. His head spun slightly from the shock of it, but he assumed part of that was due to dehydration. "Do you have water?" he asked. He leaned back against the slab to steady himself.

She nodded enthusiastically and pulled the left strap of her backpack down over her shoulder to swing it around her torso and reach inside. She withdrew an aluminum canteen and handed it to him with fervor. It was obvious to her now that he wasn't going to harm her. He couldn't even if he wanted to. He was too weak. Too dazed and confused. What the hell had happened to him? And how did he get there?

The girl waited and watched in silence as Daryl tried not to gulp down the entire contents of the container. She noticed his restraint and said, "You can have the rest of it. I was planning to fill up before I left. They have running water here."

Daryl cocked his head. Where was _here_ exactly?

"My name is Beth," she added. "What's yours?"

"Daryl."

He glanced around the room. Everything looked cold. Sleek metal cast in dim fluorescent lighting. The building had power, and he took a stab at why that might be: a hospital. They had backup generators. But how long did those last?

Besides waking up only a few minutes ago, Daryl remembered nothing about the moments before or after he was locked inside a makeshift tomb. He did remember his brother, Merle. They'd been scavenging an old funeral home and were interrupted by unannounced dead at the front door. They'd made a break for it but were cornered on opposite ends of the house. Daryl cut around the back and sprinted for the road, thinking Merle would meet him there, but he never did. The last thing Daryl saw was headlights. Then nothing but black.

"How'd you know I was in there?" he asked, pulling away from his confusion. It wasn't gonna do him any good trying to figure out what happened before accessing his current situation first.

"I heard you," she said. "Thought you were a Walker?"

" _Walker_?" he repeated.

"Yeah, that's what we called them. The ones that turn."

Daryl sensed a slight choking on the pronoun _we_. Her people. They were more than likely dead. He nodded once, accepting the new terminology without protest. He and Merle never referred to the dead by anything other than _dead_. Except the occasional _sonofabitch_ , or _prick_. "If you thought I was one of them," he protested, "then why'd you open the drawer?"

It was a good question, but she had an answer ready. "Use whatever you can use," she stated plainly, as if it were some sort of personal mantra. "You might've died with a bag of peanuts in your pocket. You never know what might come in handy these days."

 _Use whatever you can use._ It had a nice ring to it, but he wondered if the idea included people. He returned the canteen back to her and she took it gingerly. She seemed eager to do something. Surely his presence had interrupted her plans. Now she was going to be forced to share whatever goods she found, and though it wasn't the best self-preservation instinct, he didn't want her to.

He stood straight and made a show of turning out his pockets. "No peanuts," he said. "But thanks for the water." He began walking towards the exit, but her sudden outcry stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait! That's it?" she objected. "You're just gonna walk out there like it's nothing?" She stammered for more of an argument against his absurd actions. "Why were you in that thing? Who put you there? What if they're still here?"

He hadn't considered that last part. There were no answers that he could give to any of her questions, but he paused and turned to look back at her. He told her the truth. "I dunno."

It was simple, but it covered everything. He really had no clue what the hell was going on. How long had he been inside that drawer? Days? Hours? It was lucky that he'd woken up when he did. If it had been just a minute too late, Beth would have passed him by, and he could have been stuck in there forever.

"Maybe they really did think you were dead," she suggested, hunching her shoulders. Being mistaken for dead was frightening in and of itself, but the look on her face when she said it was what struck him. She'd seen it before. She'd seen someone turn. And it was someone important.

"Maybe," he agreed. "Or maybe they just didn't like me."

It was an attempt to lighten the mood, but it only just worked. Beth formed a tight smile, barely reaching the corners of her eyes. She recognized his gesture for what it was, and that was what mattered.

He wasn't planning on bothering her by tagging along, but he got the feeling that she didn't want him to go. Not just for his sake, but for hers. So, he decided to go with it. As least, for a little while.

"Maybe it's best if I stick with you for a while," he suggested. "Until we know it's safe."

She raised one defiant eyebrow. "You my chaperone now?"

He couldn't help but stifle a laugh. "Nah. I was hoping you'd be mine."


End file.
